The Angel Gruppetto

It's been a tough week. I lost a dear friend after a brave struggle with ovarian cancer. She was in hospice, so the outcome wasn't unexpected. I have learned, though, that expecting grief does little once it arrives.

Riding my bike helps me process my feelings, and, given the volume and complexity of emotions, a ride was in order.

I try to not believe in the pathetic fallacy of weather influencing mood and vice versa, but it's been that kind of summer, with these low-pressure weather systems moving in, silent gray troops looming a way off, but looking like they mean business. I set out on Thursday, right around noon, under generally sunny skies. I was following an old cue sheet from a club ride.

I quickly got into the open country, and noticed a tiny, beetly bug perched on my bike computer. I did not flick it off, but instead carried this creature, and thought about involuntary relocation. Where would he/she end up? Somewhere more remote, and at a higher elevation, if I followed the cue sheet. That's life, right? We all get relocated, physically, but also emotionally. Sometimes we have a say, but often we don't. This year feels like one of those times for me.

Taborton Road rises from Sand Lake, up into ever-thickening pine trees. The scenery up there is like riding through the cover picture of an L.L. Bean catalog. I found my pace on the climb. I ascended, as the brown, foamy water in the creek to my side descended. Overhead, the sky turned to that popular if not fashionable color for the summer: mottled gray. Reminded again that weather changes like my moods.

I rounded a corner and saw two riders ahead on the hill. I gradually caught up, and chatted with them. Both retired, it turns out--more time to ride. We chatted about routes and climbs, dirt roads getting paved, and, of course the Tour.

Sprinter David Millar got within two kilometers of a win today before getting gobbled up by the mass of riders in the peloton. Not what he wanted, for sure, but heroic nonetheless. These breakaways in races go that way more often than not, yet everyone cheers for those bold riders who attempt it. Millar, totally spent, passed through the peloton backwards, out of contention for any notable place for the day. In my own racing, I'm not much of a breakaway artist--more like a hang-onto-the-wheels-for-dear-life type. But I am that man, in other areas. Trying, falling short, occasionally making it. We're all the breakaway hero sometimes, and other times we're the hungry peloton.

Further along, riding alone, I felt the presence of some departed friends around me. Sharon was there, my "bartender" at the school library who would always lend a sympathetic ear. My friend George, who showed me so many great roads. A former student, whose exuberance in life won't be forgotten. My dad, who had come to my rescue so many times when I'd gone out for a ride.

I'm not so quick to dismiss this sort of thing as the ramblings of an overworked body, with more blood flowing to the legs than the brain. No, there's something there. Something safe. High up into the woods of Rensselaer County, I prefer to think of this as my angel gruppetto, others riding close, keeping me in sight, pointing out hazards and highlights, helping me pick good lines as I ride on.